William Cullen Bryant

The groves were God's first temples.

The groves were God's first temples.

The linden, in the fervors of July,
Hums with a louder concert. When the wind
Sweeps the read more

The linden, in the fervors of July,
Hums with a louder concert. When the wind
Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime,
As when some master-hand exulting sweeps
The keys of some great organ, ye give forth
The music of the woodland depths, a hymn
Of gladness and of thanks.

Wild was the day; the wintry sea
Moaned sadly on New England's strand,
When first the thoughtful read more

Wild was the day; the wintry sea
Moaned sadly on New England's strand,
When first the thoughtful and the free,
Our fathers, trod the desert land.

I worship the quicksand he walks in.

I worship the quicksand he walks in.

I gazed upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came read more

I gazed upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came to lie
At rest within the ground,
'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound,
The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain-turf should break.